Mildred's Melodramatic Musings

“Oh, Bob, your petunias are wilting *again*? How truly devastating,” Mildred purred, sipping her herbal tea with an air of profound sympathy that was as genuine as a three-dollar bill. “Perhaps,” she continued, her eyes twinkling with a malice she mistook for wit, “you could try watering them with sparkling rosé? I hear the effervescence really stimulates root growth. Or, if that’s too much effort, simply declare them an avant-garde art installation. People pay millions for less intentional wilting, you know.”

Bob, whose petunias were indeed a sad sight, sighed. “Mildred, they’re just... brown. And I’ve watered them.”

“Well, there’s your problem!” Mildred clapped her hands, startling a squirrel. “You’re *watering* them. Clearly, they prefer to be ignored, much like my unsolicited advice. Or perhaps you could hire a tiny, bespoke gardener gnome. Not one of those mass-produced eyesores, mind you, but a true artisan of the miniature, who understands the delicate emotional landscape of a wilting petunia. I’m sure your bank account would be thrilled with that investment.”

Bob pinched the bridge of his nose. “My cat brought me another dead bird this morning, Mildred.”

“A *bird*? How utterly unoriginal,” she scoffed. “My tabby, Muffin, once presented me with a perfectly preserved, albeit slightly flattened, garden slug. Now *that* was a statement. A bird? Please, Bob, raise your expectations. Perhaps you could train your feline to bring you small, artisanal cheeses. Or maybe a tiny, hand-knitted scarf. Think of the Instagram potential! 'Look, Muffin brought me a dead bird... again.' So pedestrian.”

Bob slowly backed away, muttering, “You know, Mildred, sometimes I think you just *love* watching the world burn, as long as you can critique its flammability.”

Mildred beamed. “Oh, Bob, you always know how to flatter a lady. Now, about those petunias... perhaps a tiny, emotional support llama?”